


out to the barn, up to the hayloft

by symbiont



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horse Racing, Equestrian, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, Riding Crops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29744895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symbiont/pseuds/symbiont
Summary: ‘Good boy.’Octavio’s voice is so low and quiet that Elliott almost doesn’t hear it. Still, the words - said so gently by Octavio - send a spark of electricity down Elliott’s spine, warmth spreading throughout his body.**Or, Elliott Witt desperately wants to be the next star jockey but Octavio Silva's liberal praise is becoming far too distracting.
Relationships: Mirage | Elliott Witt/Octane | Octavio Silva
Kudos: 12





	out to the barn, up to the hayloft

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse that this fic is entirely self indulgent! I do not agree with horse racing at all but it's something I could see Octane doing. Dressage is more my area of expertise so please ignore or let me know if you spot any glaring errors! Rated for future chapter.

The thunder of hooves gets closer and Elliott leans forward in anticipation, his forearms pillowed against the cool metal of the rail. It’s only training at the farm, so Elliott knows they’re not even really galloping like they would be on race day but it’s still enough to get his blood racing, the hoofbeats on the parched midsummer ground like a heartbeat. 

A pulse of life that’s wild and untamed. 

Finally they come into view, shapeless and flowing together like a stream, and Elliott’s breath catches in his throat for just a moment. This is why he’s here of course, for that taste of freedom and the hum of adrenaline as much as he wishes for the grandeur and the cheers - everyone’s eyes on him as he crosses the finish line. 

The horses' hooves kick up clouds of dust as they round the sweeping corner of the dirt gallop track. Elliott can just make out the gallop jockeys' bodies onboard of them, hunkered close to their horses necks and up off the horses backs, their hands forward - asking for more. For a second it feels like it’s race day and the air rushes out of Elliott’s lungs as if stolen by a gust of wind and Elliott leans forward in anticipation. 

His hands itch for the burn of leather reins between his fingertips, his face stinging with the phantom rush of air whipping passed it. He wants more than anything - so much that he aches with it - to be there amongst them. It can only ever be just a dream though and as much as he wants to deny it, Elliott knows that it’s true. He’s too tall, too heavy, can’t ride well enough - the list goes on for reasons why he can’t become one of Mr. Silva’s jockeys, not least because he thinks Mr. Silva doesn’t like him much. 

He glances back up, trying to push aside those morose thoughts.

One is out ahead now, pulling away further and further as they advance down the track - length by length it leaves the other horses in it’s dust. The horse’s hooves beat their own rhythm and its coat is a flash of steel grey. Elliott’s breath catches in his throat. It’s beautiful; the way the horse moves like liquid silver, the light reflecting off of his coat and flashing off his short cropped mane, his pale hooves sending up clouds of dust as he flattens - his neck lowering and stretching out as he begins to drive with his hindquarters, accelerating even more when by rights he should be spent. 

Plus Ultra, or just Ultra as is his stable name, always draws attention. The same could be said about his current jockey though, thinks Elliott as he catches sight of the familiar green goggles through Ultra’s billowing mane. Octavio is fearless, a force of nature; in fact Elliott has never seen the other man stay still. That is except for when he races; then Octavio’s eyes are sharp and his body moves easily to the rhythm of Ultra’s gallop, but his fidgeting hands remain still and soft on the reins and his riding crop lays motionless across his slim thigh, as if taunting the other riders at how he has no need for it. Both horse and rider’s blood runs hot; as warm and volatile as the sun. 

Ultra is fast enough on his own, of course, and Octavio seems to take great delight in taunting the other jockeys about this fact. 

As they reach the top of the slope and burst out onto the final stretch of the flat, Elliott leans back, away from the shower of dust and to avoid getting caught in the face by horse or jockey. His eyes are drawn back to Ultra, as always, as if magnetized. He’s seen the colt race before, of course, but Elliott still can’t help but wonder why Silva’s heir favoured him above a yard full of winners. Surely, Octavio had to know that the chances of a grey winning were…

Well, definitely not impossible but not very likely either. A bay or a chestnut was far safer, far more likely to have the right breeding. It didn’t make sense, at least to Elliott.

Time seems to slow, moving passed slow and as thick as molasses as they pass Elliott, reaching the final stretch. Elliott’s heart pounds in his ears and he’s sure that, even hidden behind his goggles, Elliott can see the flash of Octavio’s vivid green eyes looking at him as Ultra gallops passed - flowing like liquid silver. Their gazes look for a moment before Octavio turns away, focusing back on the track. 

Elliott, finally, remembers to breathe - his head spinning, deprived from oxygen - and starts walking up towards where the horses have gathered before they leave the track. He spots Octavio right away, his slender legs swinging freely out of the stirrups and his riding hat tucked under one arm, seemingly unbothered by the way that Ultra is snorting and spinning in circles, as if that performance had merely been a warm up. 

The sun is behind him, casting Octavio in a delicate, intimate light that seems to make his pallid skin glow. Smiling broadly, Octavio throws back his head as he laughs at something one of the exercise jockey’s has said and Elliott feels himself flush all over - Octavio’s crooked, buck-toothed smile is threatening to outshine the sun. 

Elliott forces himself to look away, turning back towards the barn. He should really get back to work, his lunch break ended-...

‘Good boy.’

Octavio’s voice is so low and quiet that Elliott almost doesn’t hear it. Still, the words - said so gently by Octavio - send a spark of electricity down Elliott’s spine, warmth spreading throughout his body. Unbidden, the image permeates Elliott’s mind - of Octavio leaning in close, his breath tickling Elliott’s ear as he speaks - so close and yet still so far away, two planets orbiting each other without touching - the words of praise as sweet as honey to Elliott’s addled, desperately lonely brain. 

When he turns, Elliott sees that Octavio isn’t even facing him; instead Octavio is ruffling Ultra’s mane before he wobbles up onto his tiptoes to bring Ultra's reins over the colts head. As quickly as it had settled in Elliott's belly, the pleasant rush of warmth is gone again - replaced with a sticky, uncomfortable type of heat that spreads from his stomach. Of course, Octavio Silva would never say that to him, let alone be interested in him - the son of one of the richest men in the South and a nobody, a failure…

It was only a pathetic fantasy, after all. He should have never believed that it could be anything more than that. Stupid... 

‘Hey Witt,’ Elliott’s head jerks up to look at Octavio’s face from where he realises he’s been studying the lithe, supple form of Octavio’s slim body. ‘Put Ultra away for me would ya?’ Octavio is smiling but there’s a flash of something in his eyes. There’s beads of sweat in Octavio’s short crop of vivid, green hair - sparkling like jewels - and Elliott has to force his gaze away. 

Octavio already shines so brightly

‘R-right, aha, of course,’ Elliott shuffles, awkwardly taking Ultra without turning his body directly towards Octavio - swivelling at the hips in a way that makes his body feel oddly stretched. Hopefully, it wouldn’t ache in the morning and Octavio hadn’t noticed a thing. 

Carefully, Elliott starts to walk back towards the barn, hanging onto the smallest shred of hope that he won’t see anyone else until he’s had a few long, painfully boring minutes of hosing down some stable mats. After all, breeches - especially cream coloured ones - are not exactly forgiving to his current… predicament. 

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Octavio?’ Elliott starts even though Mr. Silva is obviously not talking to him. Still, Mr. Silva’s voice is enough to make Elliott’s skin crawl and quite possibly freeze hell over; cold and uncaring, infused with frigid anger. 

‘Lighten up padre,’ Octavio laughs, but there’s something brittle in his voice Elliott realises. Octavio has never been quick to anger but around his father it’s a different story entirely. ‘We were just having a bit of fun. You should try it some time.’ 

‘You’re going to ruin that horse. Do you think this is one of your stupid games, Octavio?’

Elliott cranes to hear the rest of their conversation but the last snatches of it are lost; he’s too far away now and he can hardly risk getting caught eavesdropping - especially not when Mr. Silva is in such a bad mood already. Still, Elliott can’t help but wonder - worrying about what might have happened like a loose thread - and wish that he could have heard. He’s far too wrapped up in all of this - his job working for Mr. Silva which could lead to his dream one day but also in Octavio.

_Octavio._

He sighs. It’s not as if it’s a secret as to why Octavio has fallen out of favour with his father, Elliott has seen the track marks that snake up and down the delicate skin on the inside of Octavio’s arms, the way Octavio’s pupils are sometimes blown wide and his speech is somehow impossibly quicker than usual. Octavio seems like a rabbit - bounding this way and that more quickly than Elliott can follow, a bundle of nerves and vitality that Elliott can only hope to gaze at. Beautiful and fantastic but also troubled and alone, so alone.

Elliott’s own chest aches faintly and he tightens his hands around Ultra’s reins. As if sensing his discomfort, the horse nuzzles softly against the soft skin on the inside of Elliott’s elbow - his breath warm, grounding Elliott too the moment before he can float off buoyed by a thousand thoughts that are like helium. Suddenly, Elliott feels a strange twisting kind of guilt of his opinion of Ultra earlier - not only had the horse outpaced Mr. Silva’s bays and chestnuts but who could doubt that there was something _different_ about this horse, when Ultra seemed to know exactly what Elliott was thinking. Surely there was something else there, the hoofbeats of those few true greats in this horse’s heartbeat. 

He strokes Ultra’s soft, velvet nose with his forefinger. 

‘Good boy,’ he mummers, Octavio’s voice an echo in his ears. 

Of course, after such a performance Ultra needs a bath to wash off all of that dirt and sweat. The hosing down area is around the back of the barn although Elliott has only been there a couple of times - to hose down mats or equipment. Ultra behaves perfectly as he gently washes the colt down, standing motionless beneath the spray of cool water as if gratefully to be cooling off. 

‘Good boy,’ Elliott says again, his tongue heavy in his mouth - unwilling to summon the memory back now that he has calmed himself down again. Elliott unties Ultra’s leadrope and takes him back to his stall, steadfastly not thinking about a certain shock of untamed, green hair and that awful, smart mouth.


End file.
